


that fear that you can't shift

by helorific



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: AU, Connor can't deal with his feelings, Declarations Of Love, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:52:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helorific/pseuds/helorific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Connor realizes he and Oliver are in a relationship. He doesn't take it well. </p><p>Or: Connor is allergic to the words boyfriend, home, and love. Oliver introduces him to all three. </p><p>AU-ish, since I wrote this during the first half of Season 1 and didn't get around to posting it until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that fear that you can't shift

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I just wanted Connor/Oliver fluff with some Connor&Michaela friendship thrown in. And then this happened.

Connor lets himself into Oliver's apartment with his key and goes to put the tacos in the refrigerator—they won't be touching them for a very long time, if Connor gets his way. There's a foam container of week-old hummus on the top shelf, which he discards. The turkey sandwich that somehow wound up in the vegetable drawer, he decides to nab for lunch tomorrow. His own pantry boasts the standard bachelor pad junk food, plus a measly bag of dried kale chips. And no matter how vehemently Michaela insists otherwise, Connor firmly denies that kale in any state of matter qualifies as food.

He calls Oliver on a whim, and when he hears the phone pick up, launches straight into, "How do you feel about tacos?"

"Tacos," Oliver repeats. "Yeah sure, go for it."

"I was hoping you'd say that, because I already got some."

"...remind me why I put up with you?"

"The mind-blowing sex," Connor replies glibly. "Get home by six and I could give you a demonstration."

Oliver mumbles some excuse about grouchy bosses and terrible traffic and hangs up, his pulse racing through the roof and his pants uncomfortably tight.  
Connor grins, pockets his cell phone, and flops onto the living room couch to wait. He's reaching for the TV remote—Oliver has the last season of Suits on TiVo—when he realizes he called Oliver's apartment "home."

\+ + +

Oliver arrives at six o'clock on the dot. He insists that they eat first, batting away Connor's wandering hands and puttering around the little kitchen.

They end up on the couch, and fine, Connor will admit, it's sort of nice to eat tacos from flimsy paper trays and make small talk at the end of a long day. Oliver lights up when he talks for extended periods of time, so Connor lets him ramble on about work and co-worker drama and the new coffeeshop down the block. He doesn't realize he's tired until he's slid down so far that his empty tray rests on his stomach instead of his lap.

"C'mon, get up." Oliver nudges his side. "I think it's time to go to bed."

"With you?" Connor asks hopefully.

"Talk to me in the morning and maybe we'll see."

"Just want to sleep, I promise," Connor mumbles, already half-asleep. "Not gonna take anything. Not this time."

"That's reassuring."

"I– I really like you." Connor blurts to his—boyfriend? friend?—he doesn't know what Oliver is to him. He doesn't know why he's here either, or why he feels the sudden urge to fall asleep spooned against Oliver.

Connor doesn't know a lot of things. But Oliver does. Oliver's really smart. Smart boyfriends are hot. Shit, is Oliver his boyfriend?

"You're talking out loud," is all Oliver says in reply. He presses a kiss to Connor's cheek and leaves the room to throw away their taco trays and empty beer bottles.  
Connor groans and presses his face into the sofa. Boyfriend. He has a boyfriend. He closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like to come home to this every night. He'll just imagine for a little bit, he thinks, no harm in that.

\+ + +

When Connor wakes up again, tucked under a purple afghan, Oliver is nowhere in sight. On the coffee table, inches from his face, is a yellow sticky note wedged beneath the glass paperweight.

 _Went to get breakfast_ , it says in Oliver's precise handwriting. _Coffee's in the kitchen. Spare toothbrushes are in the medicine cabinet._

Breakfast. Toiletries. They didn't even have sex last night. They're in a relationship, Connor realizes. A relationship that apparently includes domestic sappiness. The next thing he knows, he'll have a spare set of clothes in Oliver's drawers and a bottle of hair gel above the sink. Boyfriends. Home.

His thoughts go somewhere terrifying, so Connor does what he does best. It works in the courtroom, it should work here, right? He evades the truth. He runs.

\+ + +

"So let's get this straight: you're an emotionally constipated crybaby who left your boyfriend's apartment while said boyfriend was getting you breakfast?"

They've arranged to meet at a nearby cafe, a hipster gathering ground with indie music that blurs into one unending stream of banjos and throaty vocals. Connor wants to strangle whoever thought it would be a good idea to play the current track, a folksy ballad about lost love.

"I'm not here to judge," Michaela says between sips of her vegetable smoothie, although the look on her face screams otherwise, "but haven't you been dating Oliver for a while now?"

Connor scowls at his untouched tofu burger. "It wasn't dating. It was like... Friends with benefits. But with more feelings than anticipated."

Michaela heaves a long-suffering sigh. "You know what you have to do, don't you?"

"Quit laughing at me."

"Sorry not sorry." She swipes one of his sweet potato fries.

Connor pushes the entire tray across in defeat.

\+ + +

"Hey."

"Hi." Oliver leans against the doorframe, his face blank. "Where were you?"

"I don't do boyfriends," Connor blurts.

If Oliver's eyebrows climb any higher, they're going to be in his hairline.

"What I mean is, well, I don't know what I'm doing," he says. "I hate how you leave your socks on the floor and how you never make the bed, but you sing classic jazz in the shower and bring me coffee and breakfast. And I think that maybe I'd like that. Today and tomorrow and next month. Or I'd like to try. With you. If that's, you know, okay by you?"

One second, Oliver is standing in his doorway, mouth slightly parted, and the next, he has a hand on the back of Connor's neck. "I love you too, you idiot."  
Then their lips meet and Connor feels his nerves hum with satisfaction, because this—this he can do, this give and take of wordless communication. He clutches desperately at Oliver's shirt as they stumble into the apartment and trip onto the couch.

Later, when he thinks Oliver's asleep, Connor tests out the words, whispering them against the warm skin of Oliver's shoulder. "'Love you."

Home. Boyfriends. Love.

Step by step, they're getting there.

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://helorific.tumblr.com/) as I cry over these dorks.


End file.
